


Forward and Back

by descartesthinksnot



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Batman has DID in this, Canon Rewrite, Gen, Mental Illness, Mental Illness (DID)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29014371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/descartesthinksnot/pseuds/descartesthinksnot
Summary: A rewrite of the Hush arc to incorporate my DID headcanon for Batman, practice writing fic for the first time in ages, and get rid of anything in the work that I personally don't like.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	1. because he is like yourself

**BLACKBIRD SYSTEM JOURNAL:**

**January 4, 1987. ~~???~~ Batman (added later for clarity —Wayne)**  
Hm. ‘New’ is misleading. I’m not new here, but I suppose I should introduce myself. I don’t have a name, but I’ve been keeping you safe, Bruce. Wayne? Both of you. The magician and the warrior both know me already. I have trained with them to be able to utilize their skills. I don’t often enter that castle of yours, but you may be able to find me in the bell tower. I can hear the echoes from all around in there. Be warned if you seek me out; my features may be startling if you’re expecting a human face.

I remember that night. I was there, with Wayne. He knows the night I mean.

Couldn’t tell you if it was him or me who first came up with this plan. To protect the people of Gotham from violence and corruption. To safeguard the children so none suffer as we have. The last years abroad, the training, the studying, will serve us well to these ends. I can fight. I can solve mysteries. I’m ready.

We’re ready.

* * *

**2007\. Gotham Shipyard. Near midnight.**

He remembers when he was new at this, how easily his opponents could surprise him, how unpredictable criminals felt. Especially the more atypical ones. He’d studied criminal psychology, the socio-economic forces behind gangs, the profiles of serial killers, mafia dons. The debate between punishment and rehabilitation. At one point, it was theoretical to him and he was quickly taught by experience that some learning can’t be done with books.

Now? After almost twenty years on the job, there’s a sense of familiarity, even in the extraordinary.

People view Batman as territorial, refusing to allow vigilantes he doesn’t know or trust to operate within Gotham. There have been times he’s spent almost as much energy chasing vigilantes out as he’s spent actually fighting crime. He’s heard what they say. Arrogant. Solitary. Stubborn. And maybe he is all of those things, but those aren’t the reason he’s so particular about who works within his city.

Not understanding what you’re getting into, in any situation, can get you hurt. Not understanding Gotham gets people killed. Of equal importance, it causes excessive harm to the criminals, in particular the group who’ve come to be called the Rogues. A collection of people—and he must always remember that they are people—who each seem a case study of unique conditions, physically, mentally, or sociologically. Someone unfamiliar with Riddler’s compulsions may assume a riddle means he’s being uncooperative, when in that moment, it’s the only answer he’s able to give. No amount of physical force will give him the ability to answer questions directly and trying puts him through unnecessary pain.

There is nothing Batman abhors more than senseless violence, no matter which side of the law it comes from.

Tonight, Batman has one major priority: rescue a child and return him to his family safely. First obstacle: the kidnapper. Waylon Jones, given the moniker “Killer Croc” by the press and authorities. Second obstacle, because of the $10 million dollar ransom and the young Edward Lamont’s family, the FBI and the DEO are very insistent on being involved. The feds can’t be trusted, even if they’re competent (and they’re usually not when they come to Gotham), they don’t follow Batman’s code. They don’t understand—or care to understand—the Rogues. “Supervillains”, a word Batman detests.

Jones had, last Batman checked, absconded from Gotham and retired from crime. Why is he back? What does he need ten mill for? The questions circulate in the back of his mind as he breaks through the lock, entering the ship where the boy is being held. Jones is temporarily out, leaving only some hired guns. If Batman can get Edward out and to safety before Jones returns, the night will go that much more smoothly. One problem to solve at a time.

The four gunmen are familiar faces as well, easily seen through the night-vision the cowl provides him. Gotham has almost a perpetual rotation of men with guns and a desire to make quick cash. Some are born and bred Gothamites, some are from out of town, hearing about Gotham’s reputation and thinking they can handle a man in a bat costume.

He’d pity them for getting more than they bargained for, if they weren’t making their livings off the suffering of others.

A batarang to the hand disarms one, a grapple sends a cable snaking around the largest. He dazes the third with a swift kick to the head, then elbows the last in the ribs—turning a bruise from three nights ago into a fracture. Maybe this time, Hancock will stay out of the game for more than a couple nights.

Each of the four charge high rates for their services. The ransom would cover it and then some, but for someone more than capable of going toe-to-toe with Batman alone, he can’t help but wonder why Jones would need the gang. He’ll figure that out later.

The boy is curled up on the tile floor of makeshift cell, the door welded shut. Batman can see him shivering in the night air. So small, fragile, still in his private school uniform. Batman crouches to inspect the door for a moment, then straightens up.

His shadow falls over Edward and the little boy scrambles to his feet, eyes wide with fear as he looks up, unsure if this is a rescuer or another captor. “Back away from the door, close your eyes, and cover your ears,” Batman instructs, speaking quickly, but clearly. Once Edward is as far from the door as he can get, Batman uses thermite to free the door from the frame. He pulls it off and tosses it aside, stepping partway through the opening and holding out his hand. “Come with me, Edward.”

Tentatively, the boy takes the outstretched hand, tiny compared to Batman’s. “You’re Batman?”

“Yes.” He remembers another little boy like Edward, trembling in an alley, trying in vain to gather all the pearls that fell to the ground. There had once been fear in Bruce Wayne’s eyes when he saw images of Batman, like there’s fear in Edward’s eyes. That’s the downside to relying on fear for an advantage in a fight—it’s hard to scare hardened criminals without also scaring the innocent. He can’t dwell on that, though. Priorities.

Batman lifts Edward up, wrapping his cape around him to shield him from the still-hot metal of the door frame. The cape does little to stop Edward’s shivering. He doesn’t have the time to sooth him. Jones could be back any second now. He slips through the ship’s corridors to the service shaft, shooting a grapple up to the top of the ship to get back out on the deck. Not far to go now. He can pass Edward off to the FBI and then return to handle Jones. Get to the bottom of the real reason for the kidnapping.

Wind rushes by their ears. They squeeze the child protectively to their chest. This is exhilarating for them, as close to flying as they get, but hanging from one cable above the abyss is terrifying to most. They emerge through the porthole onto the deck, exhaling slowly.

“Look out—”

He sees the reflection in Edward’s glasses just in time to duck out of the way of a clawed hand. Claws—? Jones shouldn’t have claws. Batman pushes Edward away as he drops to the ground, getting a proper look at Waylon. What’s happened to him?

Jones had a unique skin condition, leading people to _treat_ him like an animal, but he’s not an animal. Something has happened to him, something was _done_ to him—

“You shouldn’t be here!” Jones hits Batman over the head with the briefcase of money. The feds didn’t buy Batman enough time to get the child to safety. Typical.

No time for talk. He plants a kick to Jones’ kneecap, but it’s like kicking a brick wall. He’s gotten stronger. His skin is harder. He quickly adjust strategy, using the force of the kick to push himself away, scooping the boy up again to get him further away from the danger. Batman gets to his feet and turns to face Jones again, getting between him and Edward again just in time to take another hit to chin, tasting blood in his mouth.

“Stay outta this! I need this!”

It doesn’t take the world’s greatest detective to have a guess what that means. If something’s been done to Jones, it’ll cost him to get it undone. He’s seen Kirk Langstrom in similar frantic states. “I can help—” The attempt at outreach is cut off by a punch to the jaw that feels like getting kicked by a horse.

_Sometimes I wonder why you bother._

Batman rolls out of the way of the next punch, then delivers a kick to the side of his head. It’s hard enough to knock a couple teeth out, but Jones is barely even slowed. What has he been given—? But the Detective is right, in a sense. Now isn’t the time. He can see to Jones better once he’s contained, once there isn’t a child in danger.

Jones takes another swipe at him with his now-clawed hands. Batman jumps, leaping over his head, dropping a hypersonic disk to the nape of his neck. The buzzing dazes Jones for a moment and he stumbles. Batman gets him with another kick, knocking him into a large pipe. Knocked out. But he won’t be for long.

There’s a coil of chains nearby and Batman grabs them quickly, tying him down to the pipe, then exhaling, regulating his breathing. It does him no good to look like these things take effort.

The chains will have to hold Jones until the DEO takes him. Batman would rather be able to talk to Waylon now, but the top priority is still getting Edward to safely. The boy has gone from terrified to excited, letting out a triumphant cry as he realizes the action is over. “Be quiet,” Batman hisses, maybe a little harsher than necessary. A spotlight from a helicopter lights up from overhead and he instinctively readies himself for more fighting. Under his cape, he prepares a grapple to abscond as quickly as possible.

FBI and DEO agents start to surround him, some going to Edward, some approaching Batman. Their guns aren’t raised, but he doesn’t appreciate their presence. The lead agent turns to Batman. “Not how we would have handled it, but good job getting the kid to safety. Where’s the money, then we can all call this a night.”

Batman narrows his eyes, then switches his cowl to heat vision. An all-too-familiar figure swings from one building to another, quickly fleeing from the shipyard. Without saying a word to the FBI agents, he shoots his grapple and pursues.

* * *

This is a chase he’s done many times before. A strange sort of routine he’s developed. Some of the Rogues are painful, brutal to deal with, a constant erosion on his mind, body, and soul. But some, he can barely find it in himself to dislike their crimes. Catwoman and Riddler make up that category. Sportsmanlike. Neither go out of their way to endanger civilians, usually, neither are interested in being especially sadistic. And even Selina’s high profile thefts, Batman can’t really bring himself to waste precious energy being angry about. When stealing from the hyper-wealthy and corporations, even millions in cash is barely a dent.

Batman doesn’t like to mix business and pleasure, but closing a night with leaping through the rooftops and maybe a pleasant conversation if Selina is feeling sociable isn’t the worst way to wind down.

Still, he plays his part. Can’t risk it being known that he has fun. “Catwoman!” His shout echoes through the dark alleys beneath them.

Selina glances back with a smirk before picking up the pace. “Almost thought you missed me,” she says, flipping through the air before tossing her rope out and swinging away.

“Not this time.” He keeps up with her, not quite gaining on her. She’s faster than he is, but he has more endurance. If she manages to get out of his line of sight, she usually gets away, but if he can keep eyes on her, he can outlast her.

They both know it. It’s a dance they’ve done for years. A dance they both privately enjoy.

He wonders as he runs and leaps off the edge of a roof if she’s getting his attention on purpose. She had to know he’d be in the area when she decided to steal the ransom money from Jones. Either that, or she was hired for this. In-fighting has done as much to keep the Rogues from gaining any lasting power in Gotham as Batman himself has. He’ll find out soon enough, he’s sure. Selina’s too professional to give him the name of her employee, if she has one, but asking the right questions will give him a trail to follow.

Some things in Gotham never change and he counts on those precious pieces of stability. He doesn’t have to look where he throws his grapples, he knows where the buildings are. He knows the alleys and the rooftops better than he knows the nooks and crannies of his own house. He knows Selina’s moves, admires her skills, delights in her confidence.

He’s swinging upwards to make a grab for her as she flashes a grin back at him. “Enjoying the view?”

And then—

Like a kite that just had its string cut, he’s falling.

Wind rushes past their ears.

Focus.

He spreads the cape out to try to slow his descent. The cable shouldn’t _break_. What cut it?

Selina’s landed on the roof and disappeared from view. Probably hasn’t even noticed she lost him yet. She was barely _trying_ to lose him.

He catches a gargoyle, but hits it too hard, too fast. He stifles the cry of pain, feeling hot fire shoot through his shoulder, bones and sinew tearing out of place. The gargoyle crumbles and he’s falling again, barely slowed by the brief pause.

Wind rushes past their ears and they desperately try to gain control of the fall. They’ve fallen before. They always get back up. But their right arm won’t move. _No, no no… not again—_ Flashes of something half-remembered tug at their mind. They force their body to relax, hit the alert button on their belt. They don’t have enough time to stop themself from hitting the ground, but help will be on the way soon.

They tuck their head in, but not enough before slamming against the concrete. A silhouetted face peeks over the edge of the building, then the feline form disappears again and they fade from awareness.

* * *

“Beautiful night for a chase, isn’t it, Batman?” Selina looks back again, but he’s not there. She hears a faint shout below her and turns back, looking over the edge of the rooftop. “Batman…?”

Something is wrong. He’s fallen. She can make out blood around his body on a pile of broken crates. She silently wills him to get up, but he doesn’t move. He’s fallen before. His people will be coming to collect him soon. He’ll be okay. She has to believe that and move on.

And she has somewhere else to be tonight.

It’s not long before she gets to Ivy’s base—some apartment she’s taken over for the time being—entering via the balcony. Ivy lounges in an over-sized sweater, reading out-loud from a botany journal to some of her potted plants, making occasional critiques about the research methods or findings. She looks up when she hears someone at the window and nods in acknowledgment. “Any problems?”

Selina shrugs. “Not really. Batman tried to make some, but he… couldn’t keep up.”

Ivy tilts her head. “You sound upset.”

“Maybe. Does it matter?” She sets the briefcase on the table and pops it open, taking her cut. “I did the job. We done here?”

Ivy nods. “ _You_ are.”

Selina turns to go, then stops, turning back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ivy waves her hand dismissively, going back to her reading.

“And what happened to Croc? He looked… different.”

“Don’t trouble yourself over him,” Ivy says. “As I said, you’re done here.”

It’s pointless to argue the point with Ivy. Compassion is a foreign concept to her now and Selina isn’t going to embarrass herself trying to explain it. She shakes her head, leaving the way she came, but something doesn’t sit right about this. Why did Batman fall like that? What was the point in hiring her to lift money off of Croc? And what did Ivy know that she didn’t?


	2. preservation of life

**BLACKBIRD SYSTEM JOURNAL:**

**October 18th, 2003. The Detective.**  
I have been in conversation with Dr. Kinsolving and I’ve elected to use this journal, despite my usual silence here. I feel an obligation to make sure we are all aware of the… newcomer to this space. Dr. Kinsolving and I are not sure if we can safely bring him to the front at this time. He’s a knight and in his words, has fallen. The doctor has suggested referring to him as simply the Knight. He seems to be dead, having suffered from great calamity, and fallen. His back is especially damaged and he has difficulty moving or speaking.

He is close to my dwelling in the catacombs, so I will take responsibility for him. I… extend an apology as well. I pushed us too hard in our fight against Bane. I don’t know if it would have made a difference, in the end, but the internal strife between Batman and myself likely… did not help us.

If you run across the Knight around the castle, treat him well. He is old and weary and deserves our reverence.

* * *

**2007\. Crime Alley.**

He can’t move. He can’t speak. He can’t tell if that’s psychological or physical. The pain overwhelming him usually comes from near the base of his spine, but it’s his shoulder and head that feel afire. He remembers falling. He remembers being tossed around like so much rubbish. He remembers being beaten down to nothing by a relentless onslaught of hardship.

Isolation.

Pain.

Weariness.

Once again he finds himself on the ground, curious eyes surrounding him. “Is that really Batman?” “Did he fall?” “How could this happen?” The street homeless most express concern and confusion and for a moment, the Knight feels hope. As much harm as has been done to him, most people would not wish such things on another living soul, he tells himself.

But another voice breaks through the crowd. “Back off, jackasses, this creep is mine.” The voice sends a shiver up his spine. He doesn’t know the voice, but he knows the intent.

_Try to get a look at him._

_I can’t move…_

The homeless people back away, none of them are in a position to risk pissing off gang enforcers in order to help the Batman.

_“B? Can you hear me?”_

Oracle… whoever fronted before him managed to signal for help. Good. The Knight allows himself to relax, even as five men approach, the looks of concern being replaced with opportunistic, greedy leering. The batsuit is designed with these sort of scenarios in mind. The Knight simply has to endure long enough for help to arrive.

_“Okay, everyone, on deck. Blackbird is down. Who’s nearest to— to Park Row?”_

One of the gangsters nudges the Knight’s head with his foot and his vision goes blurry with the pain. “Looks like the fall did the job, see that blood? Not much we need to do here, then.”

“C’mon. We get that mask off, what we’re being paid tonight is gonna look like pennies compared to what we could get with Batman’s identity.” Without waiting for more debate with his colleagues, such as they are, the man reaches down to peel off the mask, setting off tiny gas vents, disorienting and stinging in his eyes. Hitting the alert put this suit into a defensive mode, not just layers of body armor and a fire-proof cape to protect him, but hidden compartments and wiring to ward people off from even trying.

The disarray gives way to anger and one of the gangsters strikes him with a makeshift club. A mistake, as he sets off an array of tasers, shocking him through the pipe.

_“This is H. I’m on my way.”_

_“Do you need backup?”_

_“I got it, O.”_

“Forget the job.” A third man pulls out a gun, pressing it against the Knight’s cheek. “Those costumed freaks never take him out for good. I say we finish him.”

_Move!_

But he can’t. Even Batman can’t get the body to move. It’s not psychological. This isn’t how I die. Not here. Not like this. A man with a gun, not twenty feet from where Wayne’s parents fell. But there’s nothing he can do but hope that Huntress is on time.

And, true to form, she is.

_Trust your team, Batman. She’ll get us home safely._

He hears the gunshot, misfired into a brick wall as Huntress knocks the gunman away with her motorcycle. Batman is dimly aware of the fighting around him as he slides in and out of consciousness.

Memories mix with the present. A broken string of pearls, a fall—

Hands are on him and instinctively, Batman wants to pull away, but can’t. He only relaxes when he realizes the hands belong to Huntress. She carefully lifts him into the car. “He’s gonna be okay, right, O? He can’t move… this is bad, isn’t it?”

_“He’ll get through. He always does. Step away from the car. I’m sending it to base. Good work, H.”_

* * *

The Knight comes to again in the Cave. He can feel bandages, but the pain has been dulled. He’s been laid out like this before, in the frantic scramble to save his life after Bane. The rest of the system would be too easily overwhelmed by the situation. It’s not entirely the fear of losing any mobility permanently—they all know Oracle. They all know the support they would have if that happened. It’s the helplessness of being stuck on the table.

If an attack were to come, Batman couldn’t protect himself or the family. His team is capable, but they shouldn’t have to do what he is supposed to be doing.

Knight lets it be. Focuses on Alfred’s voice, to get his appraisal of the situation. It’s hard to open his eyes, but it seems that Alfred spotted the tiny movement behind the lids and gently touches the Knight’s shoulder. “Master Bruce…” he says softly. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but the damage is far beyond my skills. Your skull is fractured. We’re looking into who could be called, but… we didn’t have a plan for suddenly needing a brain surgeon.”

 _“Dr. Kinsolving worked with his back,”_ Oracle chimes in over speakers. The Knight takes comfort in her watchful eye. _“And she can help with the mental toll. Even Detective trusts her.”_

“But she’s not a brain surgeon…” Alfred sighs. “She might be good for a recommendation. Hold on—”

The Knight has difficulty, but he begins rhythmically moving his fingers. The name hasn’t been thought of in a while and he’s not even sure which one of them actually knows it, but it’s important Alfred be told.

“Elliot?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Would that be Thomas Elliot, I wonder? Ms. Barbara, if you would… I believe he resides in Philadelphia.”

There’s a pause as Oracle pulls records. _“Dr. Thomas Elliot. Brain surgeon, specializing in oncology. The Wayne Foundation has funded some of his research. Is that how B knows him?”_

“Not exactly. They were childhood friends. Inseparable, until Master Bruce stopped attending public school.”

The Knight smiles just a little. While he personally has no memory of Dr. Elliot, if Alfred recognizes the name and one of his compatriots was friends with him, it surely bodes well that the name has been passed on to Alfred.

_“Why hasn’t he mentioned him before?”_

“Please, Ms. Barbara. This is the Blackbird we’re talking about. No one in the system talks about anything if they can avoid it.” Alfred sighs a little, not even bothering to suppress it at this point. “I’ll get in touch with Dr. Elliot; he may remember me. Call Master Dick and have him crash the Porsche, if you would. Alfred out.”

His hand lingers on the Knight’s uninjured shoulder for a moment, an unspoken reassurance.

* * *

The injuries change, the stories are often recycled. Alfred has both the skill to match the lies to the injuries and the trust of the Blackbird system to make decisions when none of them can speak. A position shared by precious few other people in the world. An unfortunate routine, calling the doctors, pulling the strings.

Elliot is, at first, delighted to hear from Alfred after all these years, but the mood quickly sours. He’s flown from Philadelphia to Gotham immediately.

For Alfred, every second feels agonizingly long as he waits dutifully for his… well, for Master Bruce to pull through.

But for the Blackbird system, under the effects of the anesthesia, time doesn’t mean much.

_Bruce, if you wanted to get back together after all these years… you didn’t have to try to kill yourself to do it._

Wayne thinks of Tommy Elliot. Such a vague memory, he’s not sure if it really happened. A dream? Some history he came with, but the body doesn’t share? His father had promised trick-or-treating, but gotten held up at the hospital. This was usual, of course.

“Why don’t we call someone from school?”

The child had simply shaken his head. “There’s no one at school.”

“That can’t be right. Alfred said… inseparable.”

The comment from the Knight does not go unheeded. Wayne wearily pushes the memory aside.

“We wouldn’t lie to mother,” Arthur says, peeking out from the library.

“Do you remember Tommy Elliot?” Wayne asks. “I’ve never even seen him mentioned in the journal.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Not by name… I had a friend, we played games together. A strategy game, with horses and toy soldiers.”

Arthur appears so young now, compared to Wayne. He stopped aging with the body just over twenty years ago, a perpetual young adult. He remembers very few names, even to do with his parents, but he remembers feelings very well. It’s strange that even he doesn’t recall Elliot.

“A strategy game… Hardly Bruce’s forte.”

Two members of the system divided the body’s given name between themselves. Wayne, the host, handles much of the professional aspects of their life. Bruce handles the social, gaining a reputation in Gotham as a playboy. He’s smarter than he pretends to be, but not the sort to sit down for a game of strategy.

“Where did the Knight hear the name? Not Detective, surely.”

Detective, one of two alters who came to the castle while Wayne and Batman studied abroad, has no memories connected to the body’s childhood home. In fact, he barely remembers being a child. He has always been around and always been in this form. A warrior. Proud and sure.

“But Detective doesn’t just watch over the Knight, Mr. Wayne,” Arthur reminds him.

“None of us have been able to speak to Samson for years. If memories of Tommy Elliot are with him…”

“Something went wrong,” Batman says.

“Mr. Pennyworth never steered us wrong before,” Arthur counters. “He wouldn’t call someone in who would hurt us.”

_He’s waking up._

Wayne’s eyes slowly blink open, staring up at Alfred and the face of a stranger. A broad-shouldered, ginger doctor, with bright blue eyes and sideburns. He looks confident and friendly, a glint in his eyes as he smiles.

Behind Tommy’s back, Alfred carefully mouths the name, Tommy, recognizing the lack of recognition in Wayne’s eyes.

“Tommy… thank you. If it hadn’t been for you…”

“Don’t mention it, Bruce.” Tommy chuckles amicably, waving it off. “What are friends for?”

And for a moment, Wayne allows himself to believe the worst of it is over. For Huntress and Oracle, a simple but sincere thank you, once Wayne is permitted to go home. He can never say thank you enough to Alfred, so he doesn’t try. Merely begins planning a breakfast once he’s able to walk around without Alfred getting concerned.

 _But someone cut the line, Wayne,_ Batman says. _I have to find out what happened._


	3. a taste of worlds to come

**BLACKBIRD SYSTEM JOURNAL:**

**December 15, 2006. Wayne.**  
Had a lovely evening with Selina. Private thoughts to follow. Give me time before I share.

 **For Wayne’s eyes only.**  
I suppose the trick to holidays is to only try anything for the Jewish ones. G-d forbid people start planning Hanukkah-themed crimes. Having an uninterrupted evening is a rare luxury, but not really what my mind is on.

If we sneak in more uninterrupted evenings, we’re going to come to a crossroads. She fancies Batman more than she fancies me, I think, but Batman keeps her at a professional distance so long as she continues to pursue thievery. If we get much closer, we’ll have to tell her the truth. All of it. I suspect she already knows the face under Batman’s mask, which only makes things more complicated. She’s had time to form her own guesses and why would she assume multiplicity when there are equally probable options that seem more commonplace?

The longer we avoid telling her, the more betrayed and lied to she’ll feel—and justifiably so. What is love without trust?

But what will she think? Selina has too many problems of her own to be weighed down with our baggage. It’s a decision we have to let her make, though, if this is to be a relationship and not just stolen time scattered throughout the years.

When does it get easier to open up? When does it get easier to trust?

I don’t know who to ask because I know what everyone will say. Alfred will say to connect with her. Batman will say to keep hiding. I’m the deciding vote and I don’t have nearly as many answers as people think I have. I can only keep her at a distance for so long before reaching the crossroads.

* * *

Jones has been taken to Arkham Asylum for observation, but they haven’t gotten very far in figuring out what’s wrong with him. Batman doubts if they’ve even tried particularly hard. In the few days it took him to recover enough from the fall to get back into the field, little progress has been made. Jones, in fact, looks even worse than he did on the shipyard. Mutated.

Perhaps a meta gene, that until now hadn’t presented itself very prominently. Until something was done to him. This didn’t happen naturally.

Alfred isn’t happy that Batman’s out again so soon, but Arkham wants to transfer Jones to a DEO facility; he’s beyond whatever help they could do and their orderlies are going to be at too much risk. And that gives Batman a time limit; Amanda Waller doesn’t like to play ball with him, especially not Luthor in the White House. Problems on problems. But he has a plan and he has a chance. With any luck, Batman will be able to help Jones and get to the bottom of this.

This isn’t an ideal set up for questioning. Jones is behind glass, agitated, surrounded by DEO agents. Feds that don’t play by the same rulebook as Gothamites. Don’t have the understanding built. Batman is hardly a comforting presence to people who find themselves frequently at odds with him, but Jones knows what to expect from him. And Batman can’t even use the mutual distrust of these government agents to find common ground right now, not with Waller watching.

He knows he’s not going to get very far with dialogue here, but Batman tries anyway. “What did you need the ten million for?”

“Take a guess,” Jones snaps, hitting a fist against the glass.

“Who did you need to pay? A name, Waylon, and I can help you.”

Jones scoffs. “I don’t believe you. Look around!” He hits the glass again, noticing a tiny crack. He’s gotten stronger from these mutations; they must have failed to account for that when placing him in holding.

Batman sighs. “Believe what you want.” He turns to go. “We’re done here.”

Maybe it’s for the better, though Batman knows what’s about to follow is going to hurt. If he can get this conversation to another location, he’ll have more control and the DEO won’t have to know the name until he’s ready to share it. If they even need to know, which they probably don’t.

“Hey!” Jones strikes the glass again. “Come back here!” It’s subtle, but Batman can hear the desperation in his voice. _Use that, Jones. Let’s get out of here._ Neither of them want Jones secreted away by federal agents, that much is certain.

The guards shift nervously, preparing to tranquilize Jones, but the glass cracks, then shatters before Jones rushes out. Outnumbered, he quickly grabs Batman, yanking him closer to use as a human shield. Even if the DEO agents decide to fire, Batman’s body armor will serve to protect him. “Back the hell off!” Jones shouts.

Batman expected this and doesn’t put up too much resistance. He’d rather the guards keep their distance anyway. His head is spinning from being yanked backwards and Jones isn’t being terribly delicate with the hand that’s around his throat. Batman kicks, putting up the illusion of a fight more than he’s actually fighting. It’s more important he gets a tracker on Jones. Ignore the pain. Keep in focus.

The guards raise their guns, stepping closer. Jones digs claws into Batman’s siding, seeking weak spots in the protective layers of the Batsuit. “Stay back or I’ll gut him!”

By now, Batman’s gotten the tracker in place and Jones has spotted his escape route, a grate leading to the sewers. The guards, still disregarding the danger they’re putting Batman in, try to corner Jones, until finally, he throws Batman at them. A couple guns go off in error, but the bullets embed themselves in the stone walls of Arkham’s sub-levels. The confusion is just enough time for Jones to rip the grate off and slip away.

All according to plan.

Waller switches on the light so she’s visible in the observation room as Batman pushes himself to his feet, checking his side. Only minor scrapes. Good. “I still don’t like this,” Waller says.

“I get that a lot.” Batman lets his cape fall around him, hiding any signs of dishevelment from Waller and her men. Ironically, her review of his plan is roughly the same as Alfred’s, but where Alfred’s main point of contention is Batman letting himself be grappled and held hostage, Waller’s objection is less considerate of Batman’s health. Waller’s not unlike Batman and Detective; she needs to be in control of the situations she finds herself in. Batman can respect that, but it makes working with her incredibly difficult.

Neither want to concede control to the other.

“I don’t need to remind you that anyone Croc hurts from here out is on your head. I hope whatever lead you think you’re chasing here is worth it.”

Batman doesn’t answer, only heads for the door. Waller is right, which means Batman doesn’t have a whole lot of time to catch up to Jones’ trail.

“You have until midnight, Batman,” Waller warns him. “And then we’re taking Croc back in.”

* * *

Wayne Manor. One of the oldest buildings in Gotham. It could easily be turned into a museum, for all the use it gets as a home. Oh, to be sure, people live in it, but most of them spend more time in the cave below than upstairs. Alfred suspects the Blackbird system avoids it due to the number of secrets it holds for them. Alfred is a sensible man and had he not witnessed proof of ghosts, he wouldn’t believe in such things, but he has. And the Manor has been checked for wayward spirits, a few times by now. It’s easier to tell if someone like Deadman has paid a visit if unknown specters can be ruled out, after all.

Wayne Manor is not haunted, it merely feels that way. The wind through the chimneys sounds like sighs of remorse. The creak on the stairs is a pained gasp. The shadows in the halls are mourning shrouds.

It’s terribly useless to dwell on the past. Alfred knows that better than most. But a man he’s raised is out there in this storm, chasing down a lead on a broken string. He shouldn’t be out, he’s still recovering from his fall. And he always has to wonder on nights like this if he’s doing the right thing.

A pair of headlights cut through the darkness beyond the Manor’s gates, breaking Alfred out of his thoughts. He takes out the comm. “Master Bruce? Are we expecting company?”

“No.”

“A car is pulling up. Pennsylvania license tag. I believe it’s Thomas Elliot’s car.”

_“Deal with him. The usual excuses.”_

Alfred doesn’t even try to hide his sigh from Batman. “It… would be better if you could make an appearance yourself, you know.”

_“Can’t.”_

“Or won’t?”

_“I don’t have the time. I don’t even remember him. Handle the situation. Batman out.”_

Alfred doesn’t have much time to speculate on why Batman doesn’t have these memories or who in the system carries them because already, Elliot is ringing the door bell. He quickly descends the stairs and opens the door, feigning surprise. “Good evening… Tommy—?”

“Hello, Alf.” Elliot flashes a grin.

Alfred’s skin crawls, but it’s difficult to put his finger on why. “Forgive my informality,” he says, trying to hint Elliot towards decorum. “It’s Dr. Thomas Elliot now, isn’t it?”

“No need to apologize, Alf,” Elliot says, not taking the hint. “I’m just glad you and Bruce remember me at all, still.”

Alfred smiles gently, nodding. “Of course we remember you. Your lives may have grown separate and both of you boys dedicated yourselves to different paths, but distance has not diminished my fondness for you.” A mix of lies and truth, as always. More likely to be believed, easier to tell. “I had forgotten your delightful penchant for calling me ‘Alf’, however…”

Elliot chuckles. “You haven’t changed a bit,” he says. “Though… you could invite me in from the rain. I’m here to check on my patient.”

“You may come in, if you like, but Master Bruce isn’t here right now. He’s… out for the night.”

Elliot checks his phone to make sure he hasn’t missed any notifications. “What happened? He didn’t have to be taken back to the hospital, did he?”

“Not unless the hospital has become a hot spot for romantic rendezvous, I highly doubt it.”

Elliot frowns. “He shouldn’t be out having any kind of rendezvous in this state, Alf. He’s playing a dangerous game.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll pass on your admonishments.”

Elliot nods. “Do that. I’ll be seeing you around, I’m sure.” He turns, expression dark, lifting his umbrella up over his head and walks back towards his car.

Alfred watches him go before closing the door, feeling a solemn weight on his shoulders. Tommy… he saw little of the boy, back in the day. Here and there, when he visited Bruce at the Manor, but the visits abruptly stopped. The night was much like this, a thunderstorm, and Tommy Elliot showing up on his doorstep unannounced.

_Back then, it was with much grimmer news, however. Martha had been home with Bruce, Thomas had been at the hospital. And the car wreck. Tommy’s parents had gone out together, without their chauffeur. There were rumors later that Mr. Elliot had been intoxicated, but the storm was bad enough, it could have happened to anyone. That’s what everyone said, trying to alleviate the guilt and blame. Or to respect the dead, when rumors circulated that Mr. Elliot had been drinking that night._

_Bruce was more accustomed to hospitals at the time, letting him sit with Tommy would help him through the difficult waiting period. Alfred remembers the optimistic reassurances, over-promising in hindsight, but the intent was kind. “My dad’s in there,” Bruce said to Tommy. “He’s the best doctor in the world. Everything is gonna go fine.”_

_“Promise?” Tommy was so meek and quiet back then, compared to his grown self._

_“Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”_

_Thomas emerged then, trying not to look too grim, but Alfred could tell immediately, all had not gone well. It wasn’t the first time he’d lost a patient—it may very well have been the last; it wasn’t too long after this that… No, mustn’t dwell on Thomas right now. Focus on the memory of Tommy._

_Thomas knelt down to be at Tommy’s level, a hand on his shoulder. “Your mom is going to be fine,” he said._

_“I told you,” Bruce interjected, not noticing the admonishing look Thomas flashed him._

_“And my dad…?”_

_“I’m sorry. We did everything we could, but sometimes—”_

_Tommy protested, pulling away from Thomas, trying to run into the back room. Bruce tried to stop him before Thomas could properly intervene. “Tommy, my dad said he—”_

_It wasn’t entirely surprising that Tommy took a swing at Bruce. Kids don’t have the same regulation that adults do and Bruce was a well-intentioned, but not very tactful child. Tommy packed a harder punch than expected, Alfred remembers the blood on Bruce’s nose. “Liar! You promised! I knew I couldn’t trust you!”_

_“What was that for—?” Bruce didn’t look to Thomas for comfort. After his fall in the cave, Bruce knew Thomas wasn’t a source of warmth, especially if he thought Bruce had gotten himself into a situation through carelessness._

_And anyway, Thomas was occupied Tommy, holding the grieving boy. Thomas spent most of the night with Tommy, even after Alfred took Martha and Bruce back home._ Perhaps that was why Batman lacked memories of Elliot, Alfred ponders, thinking how to bring it up or if he even should. Most of the Blackbird system have over-idealized versions of Thomas and Martha in their mind, imagining them as superhumanly good, instead of a realistic understanding of them being people. Loving parents, yes, but people, humans, with flaws. If something about that night interfered with their image of Thomas, perhaps the memories of Elliot had been filed away elsewhere, too…

* * *

It’s almost midnight. Batman’s clock is ticking. Jones has been on the move since he left Arkham, using the sewers and other hidden tunnels even Batman isn’t familiar with. He’s either looking for something, trying to throw off a tail, or whatever’s affecting his mind is making it more difficult to navigate. He hasn’t found the tracker, though. While Alfred is handling Elliot back at the Manor, Oracle is assisting with tracking Jones.

_“Are you sure he’s not just wasting your time?”_

“He’d only be wasting his own time,” Batman says, eyes flicking between the map on the Batmobile’s dashboard and the road. “He wants to recover the money. He’ll lead me to it or to the person he was supposed to give it to soon.”

_“And if it’s not soon enough…?”_

Batman doesn’t get a chance to answer. Something hits the front tire, a small explosion sending the Batmobile into a roll, over the edge of the overpass. There’s not much to do as the car crashes into the concrete below, just trusting the safety features to keep this from hurting him further. Relaxes, letting the frame of the car absorb the impact, not making his body rigid against the shocks, just calmly shielding his head. _How did that happen? This shouldn’t be possible._

The car comes to rest on its side, partially upside-down, leaning against a brick wall of a building.

_I don’t know, Detective. I think we were shot._

Batman punches the windshield, letting his hand linger as a target for a moment to see if more shots will follow, but nothing happens. He pulls himself out and turns on the comm in the cowl, since the Batmobile’s radio is down for the count, catching the last few words of Barbara frantically demanding an answer from him. “Oracle.”

_“Are you alright? What the hell happened?”_

“Do you still have Jones’ signal?”

_“You didn’t answer my question.”_

“All that matters is not losing Jones.” He glares at the tire, several feet from the rest of the crash, letting small cameras in the cowl take an image to analyze later. Someone is trying to delay him. He won’t let it work. Driver’s side front. Had to be deliberate, not aiming for him and missing. As a detective, he’s not supposed to believe in coincidences, but for this moment, he has to tell himself it’s a coincidence that it’s the same tire he’d once found a boy trying to steal.

The remainder of the chase is more taxing, but luckily, following Jones from the rooftops doesn’t last very long.

* * *

Waylon spends hours making sure Batman isn’t following him before scaling the side of the building to Ivy’s greenhouse. But it’s not Ivy who he finds there. A thief, though, seems likely enough to be behind stealing the ransom money from him. “Hello, kitty,” he growls, looming menacingly over Selina. If nothing else, these mutations make him more intimidating. Doesn’t even have to try to scare her. “Where’s the money?”

“Ivy should have it.” Selina doesn’t scare easy, but she already has her claws out, ready to fight. “I just took a job.”

“Wrong answer.” He lunges at her, too quick even for her. “Ivy told me you’d be here.”

“We’re being set up!” It comes out more frantic than she’d like, but Waylon is about three times her size and even stronger than he usually is.

“Why should I believe you?” he snarls.

Batman doesn’t let the conversation escalate from there, throwing a grapple around Jones’ mouth to pull him away from Selina. “Not letting you hurt anyone tonight.” Before Jones can get reorient himself, Batman throws another cable around his arms and chest, attaching this one to a small rocket. “Catwoman, move.” Without waiting for her—he knows she’s already moving—he launches the rocket and Jones out of the greenhouse and onto the roof, moving the fight away from Selina.

Waylon is dazed as Batman approaches, groaning on the ground in the rain.

“We don’t have much time, Jones,” Batman says, authoritative, but calm. “Someone is playing us. You, me, Catwoman. Probably even Ivy. Tell me what you know. You have to trust me.”

“Look at me!” Waylon snaps. “I’m just trying to fix this!”

Batman softens, crouching near Waylon. Before he can speak more, helicopters arrive, almost blinding him with their spotlights.

“Killer Croc, this is the FBI! Both of you, hands in the air!”

“Idiots,” Batman hisses.

“Liar! I knew I couldn’t trust you!” Jones lashes out at Batman, probably to use him as a meat shield again, but Batman kicks out his knee as he scrambles out of reach.

“Dammit, listen—” Batman is interrupted by the helicopter’s machine gun firing at the roof, ducking for cover. Jones makes a leap at the offending helicopter, taking out its gun before the second helicopter launches an electrified net at him. In a flash, Jones is unconscious and the helicopters are disappearing into the rain again.

He’s about to try to follow, but he stops, feeling eyes on the back of his head. Selina?

He looks around, squinting into the darkness and the storm.

Nobody there.

Nothing on thermals, either.

_Keep it together, Batman. You lost this round. Get back to the cave and regroup._

* * *

Six nights pass with no further leads. The tracker on Jones was disabled, no one at Arkham knows who took him or where. Obviously, it was the DEO, but Waller’s covered her tracks too well. For now, that lead is gone. Batman focuses on another trail; Poison Ivy. There’d been no hints of why she was involved with this, but she was. And closer to the source than Catwoman.

It’s funny how you find things when you’re not looking for them.

“Batman…?”

Selina is more than capable of sneaking up on him when she wants to, but this time, she doesn’t. Batman stops, standing on a gargoyle, prepared to leave, but waits to hear what she has to say.

“I found Poison Ivy. I know you’re looking for her.” A leap and a twist in the air and Selina’s landed in front of him, balancing on the very edge of the gargoyle. He steps back to give her more room. “She’s in Metropolis now. But I want in on this.”

Batman frowns slightly. “I work alone. Thank you for the tip.” He turns to leave, but Selina puts a hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t work alone. You never have.”

Batman doesn’t face her, just shifts his shoulders to let the cape fall in front of him, hiding within in. “It’s dangerous.”

“Don’t patronize me.” Selina moves in front of him, tilting her head to try to read his expression. “Something’s wrong, we both know it. Croc wasn’t himself. And someone cut your line the other night. And I heard the Batmobile crashed.”

Batman stiffens slightly. Of course Selina would notice, but he prefers to be a complete unknown.

“I didn’t know it was anything bigger than ripping off quick cash when I took the job.”

“I suspected as much.” He turns to go again and this time she doesn’t stop him, so he pauses at the edge of the roof again. “Thanks for telling me, anyway.”

“Batman…” Selina draws a breath, gritting her teeth. “I want to help you on this.”

“Because you feel used and you want to know who’s pulling the strings.”

“Because I saw you fall—again—and I…” She scoffs, mostly at herself. “Look, I’m not gonna stand here and beg you to let me help you. I’m perfectly capable of going to Metropolis without you. But someone’s trying to knock you down and you should have someone around to catch you, at least, and I haven’t seen you with Robin or Huntress much this week. I know you and I know you’re gonna try to do this alone because of some damn martyr complex—”

“Okay,” Batman sighs.

Selina blinks.

“You can come.”

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic now.”

His lip twitches, almost a smile. “I’d like you to come.” He takes a spare transmitter out of his belt and holds it out to her.

Selina takes it, hand lingering on his. “I didn’t thank you, by the way, for the help with Croc. You probably saved my life.”

“Jones was my responsibility.” He can’t tell if she’s moving closer to him or if he’s moving closer to her. “Aren’t you going to tell me you had it handled on your own?”

Selina chuckles. “Don’t you ever get tired of pretense?” She rests a hand on his chest. “Because I do.”

“I don’t… have the luxury of foregoing pretense, Selina. You know that.” He says the words, but one hand rests on top of hers and the other touches her cheek. “I wish I could. I’d like to…”

Selina brushes her lips against his cheek before pulling away. “Ball’s in your court, B,” she says. “See you in Metropolis.”


End file.
